


what's in a name

by simplycarryon



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Asgore is Bad at Names, F/M, pre-tragedy fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-08
Updated: 2015-11-08
Packaged: 2018-04-30 15:51:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5169584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplycarryon/pseuds/simplycarryon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>* (Toriel's small chair.)<br/>* (Its name is Chairiel.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	what's in a name

You catch him taking your measurements, and you have been married for long enough that you just smack his hands and his measuring tape away with an amused sigh. “Gorey, what are you doing.”

“Nothing, Tori,” he replies, his voice a teasing sing-song. “Pay me no mind, dear.” You roll your eyes, ever so lovingly, and go back to your crust-making, cutting a pat of cold butter into a bowl of dry ingredients. The flour and butter bead together beautifully, and you stir in a splash of icy water, turning the dough onto the counter and rolling it into a round lump. 

Asgore pinches your bottom affectionately.

You leave a flour handprint on his, in return.

 

 

When he locks himself in his workshop later, you do not question it. He is Asgore, after all, and he is busy; whatever he is doing, you are sure it is important work, so you bring him a slice of pie and a cup of hot tea. 

“Gorey, dear, I have brought you something to eat,” you call, knocking gently on the door. He does not respond, and you lean against the door, balancing the tray in your hands. “I am certain you would forget, otherwise, and you must keep up your health.”

The door opens quite suddenly, and you fall into his arms, unsure of which of you is more startled at this turn of events.

“Howdy, Tori,” he rumbles when he recovers his composure, his face breaking into a smile that melts your heart all over again. “Very sorry about that. If I had known you were leaning on the door, I would have given you more warning.”

“Do not apologize, my love,” you tell him, offering him the tray; he takes it, dwarfing it between his great paws, bringing it close to his face to savor the crisp buttery fragrance of freshly-baked pie. “I only came to bring you this. Are you busy?”

“That is a secret,” he says.

“So yes,” you reply with a smile of your own, “and it is something for me.”

He avoids your eyes, embarrassed to be so foiled in his own attempt at mystery, and you laugh and press your nose to his cheek in a brief kiss. You will leave him to his secrets, for now.

 

 

You are quite comfortably arranged by the fireplace when he returns from his hours in the workshop, smelling of wood and iron and fire magic. You pat the cushion next to yourself, inviting him to join you and your book and your cocoa, but he merely fidgets for a moment before producing a small chair from behind his back.

“Oh,” you say, delighted. “What is this?”

“A gift.” He sets it down in front of you, and you glide a paw over the polished grain of the wood, admiring his handiwork. “I made it to your size; I thought perhaps you could use it at your desk, instead of that squeaky chair that is not properly adjusted to your height.”

“How thoughtful!” You smile up at him, and you try very hard to hide your mischievous look. “What is its name?”

Asgore pauses, startled, like you have thrown a bucket of cold water over him.

“… Name?”

“Yes,” you continue expectantly, innocently. “If I wished to address it, by what name should I do so?”

He looks at you, then at the chair, then back at you, and in the most resolute tone you have heard out of him all day, he says: “Chairiel.”

You laugh, trying ineffectively to smother your amusement behind one hand. His expression shifts, then, from put on the spot to adoring exasperation, and he sits beside you and bumps his forehead against yours ever so gently in a gesture of genuine affection.


End file.
